Specters

"There is no forgiveness for the things we've done. There sure ain't no forgiveness for the things we have yet to do. But damn, I sure as hell won't waste muh time feeling guilty 'bout it."

-Salazar Aktan, in reference to the First Purges.

Moore sat alone in the empty bunker, staring vacantly at the cold, gray wall. His skin was drawn and pale, his black hair overlong and disheveled. His eyes were glazed over and dead, and his hand twitched uncontrollably, as if knowing the terrible deed which now tainted it. The remaining men under his command had hardly spoken to him. None blamed him for what had happened, but it was a subject that only carried pain, and a reminder of what fate awaited them all if a relief force wasn't forthcoming. He could feel the darkness clawing at his mind, a living thing, hovering over him, imperceptible but there, calling for him to end it all, to end the suffering.

 They had been abandoned. Left out here to die. Perhaps it had always been meant to be so. After all, they had been gauged expendable enough to be spared from second platoon, a full year ago, when first platoon had been all but annihilated and needed to be rebuilt.

"Still here, sergeant?"

The officer snapped back to reality, his dead gaze looking in the direction of the sound. It was Natasha, a surprise visit for sure, as most of the medical staff were kept permanently tied down with the piles of dead and wounded. She had ditched the exo-suit two days ago, there was no more power for recharging the suits. Moore had already noticed many of the soldiers, especially those who operated in rear area and "low priority" roles, forced to abandon theirs in an effort to minimize the power consumption. The dark circles under her eyes and wisps of hair sticking out at odd angles bore testament to too many long, sleepless nights. She plopped down next to him, removing her mud and blood coated boots one by one, stretching out and blinking to try and stay awake.

"Don't you have your own unit quarters?"

Moore asked, his tone a fair bit more acrid than he intended.

"Not any more, my dugout was hit by artillery, it's gone. I'm homeless, yes? Plus, you, not much of a unit for me, right? I think most of the other staff will probably be moved here. Will be fun. Killers and doctors, perfect match."

She chuckled at her own wit and rubbed her eyes. He merely grunted an unintelligible response and looked down at his feet. The medic remained silent for a few minutes, pulling off her soaked socks and looking at them in dismay, the water and mud had done their work. They provided another unpleasant smell in the already stale air. Moore crinkled his nose in response, and noticed Natasha doing the same, coughing slightly and throwing them back in her boots, which she hastily moved away, stretching her toes, two of which appeared broken and hastily bandaged. Similarly, much of her webbing seemed torn and damaged. Even such simple articles of equipment were no longer replacable at "Kursk". For once, he appreciated the full body suit he wore, it was completely waterproof, and generally didn't suffer the same effects of wear and tear as normal uniforms. It also consumed far less power than an exo, and could be recharged slowly without the help of a generator.

"What do you think our chances are?"

"Huh?"

The medic had disturbed him almost as fast as he had gone back to his thoughts.

"Our chances of rescue. You are professional soldier, are you not? You should have a guess."

Moore smiled at that, not even sure how to respond, he knew she wasn't naive or stupid, like some fresh faced recruit or civilian, but he also didn't want to admit the truth. It was a frightening prospect, and he realized he was more afraid of demoralizing himself even further than anything else.

"So good you are speechless, yes?"

She smiled and laughed again. It sounded exactly like something Boris would say, except not to Moore, as he was usually the one doing most of the talking.

"I'd say our chances are pretty piss poor, that's for sure."

The sergeant responded, but it brought a smile to his face nonetheless. Somewhere in the distance, the orbital defense cannon opened fire, the whip-crack of its supersonic rounds incredibly loud, even from inside a bunker. It was the first time he had smiled in over a week. Ever since Kurt's death. He could still see his face, the bloody froth coming from his mouth, the desperate fear, and then, that final resignation. Moore's hand began to shake more violently and he hastily tucked his thumb into his belt to steady it. Natasha watched him, seemingly reading his thoughts perfectly when she finally spoke.

"You did the right thing you know."

Her tone was calm, even and controlled. Moore drew his hand across his face, seeking to wipe the specter from his mind.

"He trusted me. He trusted my judgement. And where has it led?! To death and damnation!"

The sergeants response was fraught with impotent rage as he vented his anger in a sudden outburst. The medic didn't flinch at the sudden explosion of violent outrage. Perhaps she was too tired. But her eyes didn't move from Moore, merely watching him with concern.

"Your men look up to you, and so does everyone else trapped here. You have more respect than every officer here."

Moore looked up from the floor, unsure what to think of what she had said.

"Have you not heard the whispers? Are you that detached down here, crying about what cannot be changed? I've heard some speak of 'The Rat' that even the shvir are afraid of. Some of the wounded told me you're the 'black angel'. To them, you are a hero."

The sergeant sat still, even his hand seemed to slow to a gentle shuddering. He chuckled coldly as he thought of the ridiculousness of their situation. A hero! When all of them were as good as dead.

"And what do you think?"

The question took her by surprise, and her eyebrows contracted in thought.

"I think- I think you are in the wrong line of work."

She said, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards a little. It was poor humor at best, but brought a slight smile back to the sergeants face.

"Can't argue with that assessment."

The silence stretched for a few minutes as the Moore stared at the wall. Both were unsure of what to say, and Natasha rummaged in her pack for something. 

"Well, at least we can have a drink."

She announced suddenly, the insides of her bag clattered as she pulled a silver flask out into the open.

"A drink? Now? That's har'ly professional."

"Professional? You are concerned with professional?" she stared at him in mocking surprise, "I think you should go talk to your men then. I think some of them are getting- The term is wasted, correct?"

At first Moore scowled and shook his head, struggling to keep a straight face at the question.

"Well, they are getting wasted with one of the gun crews. Turns out your people are better at making friends than you are."

"Doesn't the gun crew have a job?"

"Gun is out of ammo, has been for three days now. What job then?"

"Well, that's great. Fucking Valeri, can't let him manage anything. Shouldn' have left him in charge."

"Oh, he's drinking with them, I think."

The sergeant drew his hand across his face one more time.

"You're right. I'm in the wrong line of work. Shoulda stuck with the marines."
Natasha shook her head and took a few gulps of whatever liquor she had in the flask.

"Do you want some, sergeant?"
She asked him, lifting an eyebrow at the commando officer. With a resigned shrug, Moore reached over and took the container.

"Yeah, sure, why not."
The liquor burned his throat as he took a long draught. The distinct aftertaste reminded Moore of the "torpedo-juice" he had once drunk aboard a navy frigate. Of course, that particular concoction had landed the sergeant in the hospital for a week. He could feel the warmth racing through to his tired limbs, making him feel relaxed and at ease.
"Better?"

Natasha asked.
"Is there a problem booze doesn't fix?"
Moore asked rhetorically, feeling some of his confidence returning as he took another swig from the silver flask.
"Hey, you're going to drink it all!"
The medic suddenly shouted angrily as she watched him. Moore smiled and leaned over, handing her back the flask and kissing her gently on the cheek.
"Durak!"
She shouted, but as Moore pulled away he saw the smile hidden beneath the exasperated grimace.
"Good thing you are 'professional' sergeant. Such a steely self control."
He put on a serious face, which ill concealed his flushed cheeks and the amused twinkle in his eye.
"Always was my strong suit."
The talk with Natasha, and the liquor, had lightened his mood significantly, the oppressive blackness a faint whimper in the back of his mind. For the first time in weeks, Moore felt hope.

It had been two weeks since they had been stationed here, on "Sentry Hill", and still there had been no sign of the enemy. Down below lay the small outpost of Bjorgensfjord, and most of the installation lay inside the deep bunkers hidden underneath the planets surface. Only the sensor towers and spires rising towards the sky gave it away for what it was. The center for intelligence in the entire sector, gathering and storing data from hundreds of its smaller brethren. What PFC Valence didn't know of was the archives, bearing damning evidence of the Imperiums less commendable achievements. All he knew was that his regiment, and now the entire division, had been assigned to guard the installation until relieved or ordered to withdraw. Up here, all he could see was the hurried preparations of his unit, the 78th Storm Division, as well as the Intelligence Services own private security details. Bjorgensfjord was a quiet sector of the front, but an offensive was expected. The remainder of the 78th had only arrived a few days prior, hurriedly requisitioned by the highest authority to defend the installation. Their heavy weapons and manpower was sorely depleted from months of combat, but they would have to make do without further reinforcement.

"Do you hear something?"

It was Mors, one of his squad mates and the machine gun operator, together, they manned one of the foxholes on the edge of the "Sentry Hill" fortifications.

"Hear what?"

Valence responded without thinking, but he could hear it too now, a thrumming howl, soft but steadily increasing in volume. Their sensors had picked nothing up, otherwise they would have been given warning.

"Sir, we got something incoming, north ridge, sounds like aircraft engines!"

Mors was already reporting to the central outpost. Valence knew they hadn't been given any promise of air support and he clutched nervously at his rifle. The engines sounded too loud to be shviri, but one could never be too careful.

"Stand down, it's out own."

Came the calm response from the other end. Valence cursed silently under his breath, angry that they had been given no prior warning of the friendly aircraft's approach. Seconds later, the roar of engines increased to a terrible crescendo as three black shapes tore from behind one of the only hills that marred the area. They had plotted their approach perfectly to avoid detection, and the three craft nearly touched the ground as they made their presence known. As they approached, he could make them out as Drakken gunships, their clean lines distorted by the heavy ordnance each carried underwing. They bore no visible identification markers, no squadron symbols or even Imperial livery, not even optical camouflage, the craft were painted in a uniform, matte black. In perfect concert, two of the aircraft tore away, aiming straight for Bjorgensfjord. The remaining gunship roared over Valence's position, forcing him to dive for cover in the depths of his foxhole. Reverse thrusters whined as it slowed to hover idling over the clearing between the main outpost and the foxhole.

Peering out over the edge, Valence could see the gunship in profile. Much of the camouflage was gone, and the steel underneath shone brightly in the mid day light. The ornate lettering beneath the cockpit glass spelled "Fey Phan-". The remainder of what Valence guessed was "Phantom" was marred by a scorch mark from a shviri laser. The source of the name was easily visible. A beautiful, scantily clad woman with wings adorned most of the aircrafts nose, smiling widely and clutching a boxy rifle. The vivid, lovingly crafted image contrasted sharply with the plain white number 340-1 stenciled on the gunships side alongside a dulled Imperial insignia. Valence scratched his chin as he noticed the sword that bisected the blue and red bars of the flag. He had never seen the markings and the informal appearance of the ship heightened his sense of nervousness. Slowly, he stepped out of the foxhole, pulling his goggles over his eyes to shield against the swirling dust before approaching the gunship, which had now settled on the empty field. The rear ramp dropped and the private shuddered as he saw the men who exited. He only saw three as they stalked out silently in their black uniforms, their camouflage cloaks distorting their forms. They were specters in broad daylight, motioning to whoever had remained inside. Each wore the same skeletal face-mask, the cold, pitiless eye lenses and bulky air filter only furthering the terrifying appearance. Valence felt the weight of their combined gaze, but they seemed not to care about his presence. With a keening wail, the engines of the Drakken tore it from the ground, sending it racing after its fellows down to Bjorgensfjord. Commando's, three gunships of them. The young soldier gulped in trepidation as he wondered why they had come here, and why they had come in such force. Almost immediately, the trio split. Two raced off towards the main outpost. The other merely unslung a bulky sniper rifle, the weapon appearing comically large in his hands as he moved off towards the abandoned meteorological outpost, a position that provided the perfect vantage point to overwatch the entirety of the installation that lay below.

"Sir, you got commandos incoming."

Mors stated flatly, though Valence could see that his pale face had become a shade paler already. Whatever was coming in the commandos wake, he wanted to be away from it. Not for the first time, PFC Valence wished he was at home, far away from the conflict.

Down below, on one of the steel decked landing pads, Lieutenant Hess nodded to his pilot and activated the Drakkens commlink. On the other end was an operator at the MIRS relay site at Tyr, 750 kilometers away. He heard a woman's tinny voice complaining and griping as he overrode all other dispatches with his priority clearance. It was a simple message, conveying all that needed to be said.

"First platoon has arrived at Bjorgensfjord. Evacuation commencing."


As usual, any comments/criticisms are appreciated. Feel free to follow.